


Another Day Wiser

by awkwardsorta



Category: Cricket RPF
Genre: Boys Being Idiots, It's literally canon, Lack of Communication, M/M, ask me about it, does anyone even know?, lovers to ...friends?, lovers to enemies?, this break up is canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 08:55:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14829242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awkwardsorta/pseuds/awkwardsorta
Summary: Jos joins up with the England team again at the end of August and he still hasn’t told Craig where he’s going, but the boys seem to think it’s Notts, or maybe Lancs. Craig gets irritable when they talk about it in front of him, which makes them do it more. “You could move too,” Max says. “I’m sure Jos will pop the question soon if that’s what’s holding you back.”The canon breakdown of Jos and Craig's relationship





	Another Day Wiser

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Angels_in_Fishnets](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angels_in_Fishnets/gifts).



> For this prompt:
> 
> #2: Show me the breakdown (M/M, characters from NZ or England)  
> We all know the enemies to friends to lovers trope. I want an inversion. Lovers to enemies. Lovers to friends. Lovers to acquaintances who smile awkwardly at one another and try to never have to talk alone.
> 
> Caveat: NO LONG INVOLVED CONVERSATIONS ABOUT FEELINGS! That's between the couple or between either side and anyone else. Give me stupid boys being stupid. Give me crap assumptions about how the other person feels. Give me anger, or alcohol, or cheating, or just never getting around to texting back. Show me the breakdown, not talk to me about the breakdown.

They’re talking about it all summer: everyone on the team, everyone off the team too. Craig’s asked in post-match pressers, along with the rest of the senior squad. _What’s Jos’s future at the club? Will Craig continue to be first choice keeper? Are they aware of interest from other teams?_

Craig’s aware, of course. The press won’t let him forget, and its the favourite topic amongst his teammates. Even his mum asks the question, pointing to a match report that mentioned it. In fact, the only person who isn’t talking about it is Jos.

He’s back from England duties for the summer, and the first thing Craig asks when Jos comes round is, “So are you leaving then?”

Jos snorts. He disappears behind the fridge door and emerges again with two beers. “I just got here?” he says, passing one to Craig. 

“You know what I mean,” Craig says. “What have you decided?”

“I haven’t decided anything,” Jos says, and he’s walking away from Craig, out to the deck. It’s a beautiful July evening in Somerset and the sun is still warm across the fields at the back of Craig’s house. Craig doesn’t sit down when Jos does, he stands and waits until Jos looks up, shading his eyes from the sun. “What?”

“Why won’t you talk about it?”

Jos stares, then looks away, frowning. “Because I don’t want to? Give it a rest, Kiesy, christ.”

When Craig still doesn’t sit down, Jos looks up again and says, “Can we just enjoy this? I’ll tell you when I know what I’m doing. Right now I just want to sit in the sun with a beer and catch up with my mate who I haven’t seen in ages.”

“I want doesn’t get,” Craig mutters, but he sits down next to Jos, and after a minute Jos puts his hand on Craig’s thigh and Craig puts his arm around Jos’s shoulders. He doesn’t question the word ‘mate’.

“So tell me about the Champions Trophy,” Craig says. 

“I got bowled first ball in the final,” Jos says. “Next question.”

Craig laughs, not meanly, but it’s easier to commiserate than congratulate. “You got some good catches though,” he says. “I was watching.” 

“Yeah that’ll keep me in the team,” Jos says, and Craig rolls his eyes. “That attitude won’t,” he says. Jos huffs, and takes his hand away, and there it is. They only took five minutes. “I’m just saying,” he says. “I’ll have your place if you’re not going to fight for it.”

Jos sighs, heavily, raising his eyes upwards. “I’m fighting for it, you fucking know I am.”

Craig feels irritated and guilty in equal measure, and runs his hand over Jos’s hair. “I know,” he says. “I’m just saying.”

“You’re so annoying,” Jos says, and Craig snaps back, “You didn’t have to come here.”

Jos stays though. They bicker on and off all evening until Craig persuades Jos to let him feel him up on the couch, and that turns into Jos staying over. Craig wakes up at four thirty with the light stealing in around the curtains and Jos’s arm around his waist, Jos tucked up behind him. It’s hot under the covers and Craig kicks them carefully off his legs, listening for any sound of Jos waking. 

 

It stays like that all summer, July and August passing in a flash. They’re ping-ponging around the country for the T20 games, back and forth from Taunton, seeing friends in other cities and catching sleep at the back of the bus. For a while it almost feels like normal, like it’s a year ago and they’re both happy. Like when Jos didn’t expect to be first choice and Craig was enjoying having him by his side in the England set-up, a partner in crime, and in FIFA battles. 

Then the rumours bubble up again because the journalists have nothing better to talk about, and Jos retreats into himself, and Craig sits with Pete because it’s easier.

He still goes to the Buttlers’ for Sunday lunches, and their teammates still invite them as a pair, CraigandJos, but sometimes Jos doesn’t want to go, and Craig doesn’t know how to make excuses for a man who’s not his to make excuses for.

Jos joins up with the England team again at the end of August and he still hasn’t told Craig where he’s going, but the boys seem to think it’s Notts, or maybe Lancs. Craig gets irritable when they talk about it in front of him, which makes them do it more. “You could move too,” Max says. “I’m sure Jos will pop the question soon if that’s what’s holding you back.”

 

Craig’s in Pete’s car one morning in September, the tail end of the season and Craig’s enthusiasm for morning gym sessions has waned. He’s on his phone, mindlessly refreshing twitter and running excuses by Pete for getting out of training, when there it is. Someone’s reweeted it, a breaking item: Lancashire announce new signing Jos Buttler. 

Craig hasn’t spoken to Jos for a few days, maybe a week. He’s been with England, Craig’s been doing his best to focus on county cricket. They’ve both been busy, and Craig’s only half noticed the time go, knowing they haven’t been on the best terms recently, but waiting for Jos to get back to the south-west before he broached the subject.

And now here they are. Craig sitting in the passenger seat in Pete’s car, staring at his phone. Pete talking to him, something about his last excuse, laughing and then, when Craig doesn’t answer, turning to look at him. Craig clicks through to the article and then changes his mind; what, after all, could it say that those few words haven’t said already. Jos is going, and he never told Craig.

“Jos is leaving,” he says, too abrupt and his voice sounds strange. “He’s going to Lancashire.”

There’s a long pause. Pete’s facing the road again, not far now from the club. “I know,” he says, at last. “It’s rubbish.”

“You knew?” Craig can’t help asking. 

“You didn’t?” Pete asks in response, and looks over again at Craig. “Wait, sorry, you didn’t know?”

Craig shakes his head, and his face feels hot. He tries to laugh but it isn’t very successful. “Did everyone know?” he says. “Not everyone,” Pete says, but it sounds feeble. 

“Hey, sorry,” he says again, and reaches a hand over to grip Craig’s shoulder, before he has to change gear again. “Did you really not know?”

They get to the ground and Craig doesn’t know what to do. All those excuses he thought up, not knowing one was waiting for him in the wings. ‘My maybe boyfriend is leaving and he didn’t tell me.’ That would get people talking. 

Pete looks nervously at him. “Are you ok?” he asks. “I’m sorry, it’s shit I know. I’m sure he was planning to tell you.” It all sounds rather pathetic. “Come on,” he says. “A session in the gym will take your mind off it. Endorphins and all that.”

 

Jos shows up to the Somerset end of season dinner. There’s no reason he shouldn’t, of course. He’s still friends with everyone else on the team. As for Craig, they haven’t spoken since the news came out. Craig doesn’t see the point. If Jos didn’t want to tell him before it was announced, then Craig assumes he won’t have much to say afterwards. He watches the congratulations come through on twitter, the well wishes and the sorry goodbyes from their Somerset teammates. Craig doesn’t add to the messages, and Jos doesn’t complain.

The seating arrangements have them sitting opposite each other, but Jos avoids eye contact for three courses and then leaves their table as soon as he can. Craig co-opts the last bottle of red on the table for himself and tries to ignore Max moaning about getting Craig in the divorce. There’s a presentation to Jos, to say goodbye, and Craig claps along with the rest of them.

They stay out of each other’s way for the rest of the night. Craig drinks too much and attaches himself to Pete, ribbing him for his awards and demanding his attentions on the dancefloor. He sees Jos every so often, surrounded by the club dignitaries and old boys, all wanting to get their moment with the golden boy before he leaves. 

They do this, Craig thinks, they argue and they take the space they need from each other, but then they come back together. It’s just what they do. If Jos just comes home with him tonight they’ll work out all their frustration with each other and they’ll have made up by the morning. 

He texts Jos as the party’s winding down, _Share a taxi?_ then he switches to water and tells Pete he’s going to leave soon. Covertly he watches Jos, with Daz now, their arms around each other. He watches his phone, checking into their conversation when he sees no reply, sees the message received, and waits.

“Where’s Jos?” he asks, when Daz joins them a while later, and gets a surprised look for his troubles. “Gone, my lad,” Daz says. “Was he giving you a lift?”

“No,” Craig says, and he musters a smile. “I was saving that pleasure for you.”

 

He’s never been more grateful for the off season. He doesn’t know what to do with himself: he binges TV and junk food in equal measure, takes the train to London and makes plans for Christmas, but for long hours at a time he’s just lying in bed or on the sofa, eyes glazing over as he scrolls through social media. He’s got rid of Jos, which makes it easier, but sometimes he considers getting rid of everyone. 

He goes home to Cape Town and his family know better than to mention it. He has three weeks of relief, and then he’s back in Somerset and preparing for pre-season. 

 

Craig gets the call sitting on the balcony at Taunton, watching Nick and Marcus bat in a warm up against Worcestershire. He’s just made a cup of tea after having got out on 54, and he’s waiting for it to cool down enough to drink when someone calls out to him from the changing room. “What?” Craig shouts back, craning his neck to see inside. The others on the balcony are talking about the new scoreboard, which has been glitching all day and is currently an over behind. 

They come out with his phone in their hand, saying, “I think you’ll want to take this.”

The screen says ‘Gilo’ and Craig’s heart stops. He can’t get his brain in gear fast enough to answer before it’s back to his home screen and there’s a missed call notification. “Thanks,” he says, standing up. He stops to grab his tea, and puts it down the moment he gets inside anyway. The phone’s ringing on the other end and Craig escapes to the quiet corridor in time to hear, “Craig, thanks for calling back.”

 

“The World Cup?” 

Craig nods, his heart still in his mouth and his stomach somewhere down by his feet. The boys whoop and cheer and surround him to dole out pats on the back and mess up his hair. “Get off,” he says, but he starts laughing and the coach pokes his head in from the balcony. “What’s going on in here?” he says, and Craig has to go over it again. 

He’s hugged everyone at least twice, and when Marcus comes in from his ton he’s beaming at the news. “Always got to one up me, Bagel,” he says, and Craig feels flushed with pride. “Of course Marcus,” he says. “But one-upping a pre-season hundred isn’t much effort you know.” Marcus cuffs him round the ear and Craig ducks away, grinning.

“Are you going as a keeper?” someone asks, and someone else says, “No it’s Wrighty who’s injured isn’t it? They need an opener.”

“They’ve got Jos anyway you twat,” another voice pipes up, and there it is. Half the voices in the room stop, while Pete pats Craig forcefully on the head and goes back to the balcony with Hildreth.

“Uh oh,” Max says. “Someone mentioned the J word.”

Craig picks up a stray glove next to him and flings it at Max, who ducks, sniggering. “You know the rules,” Max says, shaking his finger at the perpetrator. “That word is banned in this room.”

“We should have a swear jar set up,” someone says, “But for that word instead.”

“And proceeds go to Craig’s tinder fund,” Max says. “I’m setting it up now. It’s a charitable fund to make sure Craig doesn’t die alone.”

“Do you want to not be such a twat,” Craig says, and there’s a chorus of delighted ‘ooh’s from the boys. Craig rolls his eyes. “I’m going to join the adults,” he says, and picks up his cold tea on his way out.

 

He wonders what they would say if they could see him that evening, lying on his sofa with the remains of his dinner on the floor next to him, discarded in favour of scrolling through twitter. Of course, one thing leads to another and he clicks on Jos’s name, and now he’s reading through all the tweets he’s missed since they broke up, or whatever happened. It’s hard to break up when you were never officially together, but Craig thinks that a year or thereabouts of on and off sex and sleepovers and invites to family dinners must count for something.

Jos seems fine anyway; he fits in easily to the England team, his timeline is full of banter back and forth with Hales and Broad, and golf with Michael Vaughan, who never really liked Craig that much. He seems fine, and now Craig’s called up again, and Craig doesn’t believe in fate but he can see an opportunity when it waves itself in front of his face. It’s been a long time, and he hasn’t forgotten, but he thinks maybe he could. He follows Jos again, and sets his phone aside.

 

“We’ll miss you, Bagel,” Pete says, hugging Craig so hard he protests a little. “Don’t forget about us, will you?”

“Instantly,” Craig says. He’s packed his gear neatly away in his locker, and he’s got the rest of his stuff in the bag slung over his shoulder.

“And be good,” Marcus says, like Craig isn’t always, which he says with affront. Marcus looks doubtful. “You’ll be okay with Jos?” he says.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Craig says, and they both look sceptical. “We’re friends still?” Craig says, but it doesn’t change their expressions.

He has messages from a few of them: Hales and Jade and Ravi bemoaning his imminent arrival, Chris with, _Bagel’s back! Can’t wait to see you roomie x,_ , then Eoin calls him to chat. 

“It’ll be awesome to have you here,” Eoin says. “Everyone’s pleased it was you who got the call-up. Jos is buzzing.”

Craig makes a little snort of disbelief, even as his stomach flips, and puts Eoin on speakerphone so he can wipe his palms on his jeans. “Looking forward to having someone snapping at his heels?”

Eoin laughs. “Exactly. He’s been getting lazy, he needs the challenge.”

“Don’t know if he wants that from me,” Craig says.

Eoin doesn’t reply straight away. Then he says, “He’s not been himself, over the winter. I think his best mate might help things.”

“Hm,” Craig says, but he keeps thinking about it even after Eoin’s hung up.

 

Craig wakes up the morning of his flight and when he checks his phone there’s Jos’s name, waiting, sitting innocuously between his brother complaining about his hangover and a Dominoes ‘two for tuesdays’.

“Drinking on a schoolnight, tsk tsk,” he sends to his brother, and deletes the Dominoes text. Then he opens the one from Jos.

“Congrats,” it says. “You deserve it. Will be good to have someone else decent at FIFA.”

Craig lets his arms fall behind his head and stares at the ceiling, letting out a long breath. His heart is painful in his chest and he takes in another deep breath, letting it out slowly again. He picks up his phone again and reads it a few more times. He can’t help scrolling up through their messages, jumping back to last October, jumping back further and it doesn’t take long to get far enough back that in between the stupid jokes and mindless chat, he finds the explicit ones. The ones sent late at night on away games, teammates in the rooms with them. Winding each other up and then descending into stupidity, Craig snorting with laughter into his pillow.

He sends a quick message back to Jos, a brief thanks, and gets out of bed.

 

It’s a shock to the system to see Jos again. He looks good, all the boys do: coming off a stint in the Caribbean and Craig knows how fun that is, how it buoys you up for a big tournament. Jade gets straight into it, Craig’s so pale he’s practically translucent, and Craig tells him this is a refined look but it’s distracted, his gaze drawn to Jos, sitting with Chris a few yards away. He’s apparently deep in conversation, but when Craig looks over Jos looks up straight away to meet his gaze. 

There’s a beat, and then a smile, hesitant but there. Jade looks behind him, and then snorts. “Do I need to chaperon you two?” he asks, and Craig doesn’t know what he means but he’s not really listening either. He steps forward and Chris sees him too, and then he’s in front of Jos and Jos stands to hug him. 

Craig’s all too aware of the number of people watching them and pulls back before he’d like to, turning instead to Chris and covering up his confusion in an over enthusiastic hug that has Chris laughing and patting his back. “Great to have you back, mate,” Chris says, beaming. “Good to be back,” Craig replies.

 

Back at the hotel after the game they crowd into Hales’s room in recognition of his knock, doing their best to annoy him and egging each other on with the adrenaline and the giddiness of the win. No one wants to sleep, but Hales puts his foot down at one a.m. and pushes them bodily out of his room, to spill out into the corridor and muffle their laughter and footsteps in the thick carpet and each others’ shoulders. 

Craig finds himself by unconscious design outside Jos’s room, and when Jos says, listen, he wanted to, does Craig want to come in for a second? he’s quick to agree. 

“I’ve wanted to apologise,” Jos says. He shuts the door behind him and the lights in the room are low. He meets Craig’s eyes for the first time that night and Craig feels it in his stomach. “Forget it,” he says.

“Forget it?”

“It’s us, isn’t it,” Craig says. “We do this. We fight and then we make up.” His voice is hushed, he doesn’t know why, but it’s not a surprise when Jos sways closer and Craig catches the front of his shirt. 

Jos covers Craig’s hand with his. “No,” he says, “I want to explain it, what was going on at that time—”

“Forget it,” Craig says again. He doesn’t want it brought up. He leans in instead and cuts Jos off. Kissing him is a familiar secret and Craig’s a little needy with it, a little desperate. 

 

Out in the middle, the noise of the crowd is deafening as usual and Craig has to repeat himself before Jos catches what he said and laughs, and the release of tension in his stomach, the unknotting at the appearance of the two dimples and Jos ducking his head. Eoin’s got his game face on, taking the bottle Craig offers and talking about their position, how many overs left, what rate they’re looking for, and Craig’s not listening to any of it. 

They lose, though, despite Bressie’s last ditch attempts, and go out of the competition only three games in. Two days later they lose again, all heart gone out of the squad and the Netherlands take an easy victory. None of them want to do anything except go home as soon as possible. 

Craig’s on the plane heading back to London. Jos is somewhere nearby but the cabin’s quiet and everyone is asleep or pretending to be. He’s cycled through the films on offer three times and put a podcast on instead, anything to keep him from thinking about the last few days. It had seemed like such a promise, an opportunity to seize with both hands and everything he had, and six days later he’s heading home again, no cricket played and no selector impressed. The humiliation of the team seeps into him and sits alongside a feeling of not belonging anymore, of all the jokes and shared experiences having moved on without him. 

They land at Heathrow and say subdued goodbyes in the terminal. It’s late; their flight is delayed and by the time they’re through customs and have their kit it’s almost 11. Craig finds Jos talking quietly with Joe and says, “Are you going home?”

Jos blinks at him, confused for a moment, and then says, “No — well, yeah, Manchester.”

Craig nods, and then laughs after a pause. “Right of course, sorry.”

“Well,” he says, because Joe’s still there, “Stay in touch.”

“I will,” Jos says. “Of course. You too.”

Craig hugs him, one arm around his shoulders as the other hangs onto his kitbag. He wants to say something when they’re pressed together, but nothing comes to mind. He hugs Joe too, patting his back. “Safe trip boys,” he says, and gives them a smile as he walks away.

 

His house is just as he left it and so is England. A week hasn’t done anything for the weather; everything is drab and grey and there’s a cold easterly wind that catches him every time he steps outside. The papers and the radio won’t stop talking about England’s sorry exit from the World Cup. Summer seems far away, and even further when Craig’s phone stays silent. 

April comes and with it the county season: this, at least, is a place where people back him. Marcus sits down with him one day at the ground, makes Craig a cup of tea and brings with him two custard creams. “You can have both of them,” he says, pushing the plate over to Craig’s side of the table. “Well Craig,” he says. 

“Well Marcus,” Craig says, and breaks one of the biscuits in half, one side with cream the other without.

“Talk to me,” Marcus says, “How are you doing?”

“You mean because England don’t want me back after all?”

Marcus is quiet while Craig dips both halves one after the other into his tea. Then he asks Craig if he’s still going to work for it, and Craig shrugs.

“I need you winning games for us this season,” Marcus says. 

“Course I will,” Craig says. He stuffs the second biscuit into his mouth whole and Marcus shakes his head.

“Jos is down this week,” he says, and Craig nods even though that’s news to him. “Are you going to see him?”

Craig shrugs again. “Maybe,” he says. “We’ll see.”

 

Eoin calls him a few days later. Craig’s at home, idly reading a magazine with a lukewarm cup of coffee beside him. Eoin’s outside and the wind keeps cutting in on his words. They catch up, swapping stories about the start of the season, and then Eoin starts on the World Cup. Craig would happily skip it, but Eoin just goes into team and tactics and how it’s continued since they left. 

“It was good to have you back,” he says at last. “I hope it’s the start of a proper return.”

“Doubt it,” Craig says. “Not heard a thing from the coach, or Broady.” 

“Just keep doing what you do,” Eoin says. “I’m trying to persuade people that this is the cricket we should be playing. Your cricket. My cricket. Jos’s cricket.”

Craig laughs. “Okay,” he says. “Good luck with that mate.” Eoin laughs too. “I know,” he says. “Trust me, I know.”

 

He texts Jos, _Heard you’re coming down here, fancy a drink?_

 _Definitely,_ comes the reply, _Not got much time and trying to fit a lot in but I’ll let you know when I know my plans._

A few days later he’s had nothing and he texts Jos again. _What’s news? Need to make sure you get some proper cider while you’re down here._

Pete’s trying to get him to come for a run, and his brother’s sending him links to scarves for their mum’s birthday. Craig lies in a rare patch of sun on his living room floor, gets his brother on facetime because he can’t be bothered to type, and berates him mostly to pass the time. 

_It’s the year of losing the gut bagel_ , comes through from Pete, and his brother talks over Craig, complaining about how lazy he is and the whole point was to say which ones he liked.

The patch of sun moves and then disappears altogether before Jos’s reply comes. His brother’s long since signed off and Pete’s given up and gone for a run alone. 

_Sorry,_ it says, _Just really tied up with family stuff and don’t think I’ll make it. Next time?_

 _Sure,_ Craig says. _Next time. Enjoy!_

He drops the phone beside him and lies there, staring out at the clouds creeping further across the sky.

**Author's Note:**

> Things that are canon (i.e. this whole fic):
> 
> \- Jos and Craig have been pretty inseparable since they were fifteen/sixteen. Craig used to get in fights with bowlers who were peppering Jos.  
> \- In 2013 Jos took Craig's place in the England team, but meanwhile Craig was blocking Jos's position in the Somerset first XI.  
> \- It's documented in interviews with both of them that their friendship deteriorated massively during 2013, an that they don't speak anymore  
> \- Petty proof of this is that they unfollowed each other on twitter after Jos moved to Lancashire.  
> \- Craig was called up for the T20 World Cup in 2014 as a replacement for Luke Wright and proceeded to [dry Jos's face as part of his twelfth man duties](http://zukkinijan.tumblr.com/post/81128229010/craig-kiesdryer-at-your-service-england-v).  
> \- Just before he joined the England team at the World Cup, Craig started following Jos again, but Jos never followed him back (though he did favourite tweets of Craig's, stalker) and Craig gave up and unfollowed him shortly after.  
> \- Craig never got called up again, and in July 2014 he got the injury that ended his career.  
> \- In case you were wondering, Jos started following Craig again when he got injured, and tweeted to say he hoped he was okay.  
> \- To this day they've seemingly never reconciled and honestly I cannot grasp how two best friends who grew up together honestly were that petty and fell out for good over their fucking careers. Like life is too short, you know? And/or they deffo had feelings for each other.
> 
> That's all, I hope you enjoyed the Jos and Craig show, and I'm sorry.


End file.
